


Meet Me By The Sea

by The_Madness_Within



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adultery, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-07 10:41:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3171758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Madness_Within/pseuds/The_Madness_Within
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the years since Bill had last seen Oliver Wood, a lot of things had changed. He was engaged for one. And he'd like to think he'd grown out of the days of silly romance with a man five years his junior. He hadn't. Not quite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_song_of_angry_lads](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_song_of_angry_lads/gifts).



> This story is an old one from about 4 years ago but I really enjoyed writing it back in the day and got persuaded by my good old friend, Megan, to go back to writing a bit. It's not really notable in itself but to anyone thinking of reading the following chapters, the writing style changes slightly further into the story.  
> The pairing and story isn't even pretedning to be canon, but weaved around canonical events- I tried my best.

_So, Bill, it's been a while, hasn't it? Must be nearly 3 years coming the end of July, and it still feels like almost yesterday that I'd left Hogwarts and was spending my time out in Egypt with you. Anyway, I was talking with Charlie and he said that you'd come back to the UK sometime last August – you know how it is with him, news travels slow when we talk about Quidditch – and, well, I think it might be nice to see you again, maybe catch up on what we've missed over the years. Are you free any time soon?_   
_Oliver_

X

The eldest Weasley shuffled along the winding London streets, caught up in the bustle of tourists, school children, office workers, racing about to get things done, to get home to loving families and cooked dinners. He was rather idle in comparison, nonchalantly placing one foot in front of the other and letting his legs take their own time to move along the swarm. More than once had he been violently honked at whilst crossing a set of lights or walking too close to the edge of the path, refusing to make like a Muggle and run. Besides, he had no reason to speed or rush, he was merely meeting an old friend, partner, nothing of real consequence in his life any more.

For a short while, the twenty-six year old veered off route into rows and rows of closely knit houses and wearing picket fences that pushed long, fantastic shadows across tarmac in the pleasant orange glow of the dying April sun. The area wasn't particularly clean; grey, rain washed sofas perched on front lawns in grand piles of broken chairs and mismatched appliances; large patches of unpleasant green moss climbed up dark walls, and the occasional tracksuit clad commoner passed, trotting about their daily life and flashing judgemental looks towards the young man. Though this didn't faze him, if possible it made the whole adventure of getting lost even more fascinating and wonderful than it had been before.

And then came the inevitable signs of familiarity, like the warm smell of a bakers that would waft past every day on his journey to work, or the distant peak of the Houses of Parliament, pulling him back into the horde of London commuters.

The particular café they had chosen to meet at was a quaint little place that ran from one of the side roads, small, looking almost as if it had been cobbled together in an old woman's front room. Though it seemed to retain a particular charm about it that had kept the couple coming whenever they had sought to do so in the past and, as it showed apparent, now as well.

William let his eyes drift across the space, absorbing every dark table, every head, every memory of the boy's cherub like smile as they had locked hands and spoken of the future; now all no more than a distant dream. He placed himself down in a seat in the far corner of the room, protected from bright sparkle of dusk and instead illuminated by the faint hum of a little hanging light. There was nothing left to do but wait, wait and then quite politely tell the boy that he was engaged – with a slight implication that he should be left alone – in the midst of a curt smile and simple farewell.

His head dropped, looking into his clasped hands quite nervously. What if Fleur found out, wouldn't she be angry? I mean, he certainly would if she was getting together with ex-partners. Although,he was certain no one had ever known the nature of their relationship, not even Charlie, so he was in a clear shot of getting away with it so to speak.

"Ah, Bill! You haven't changed at all, have you?" sighed the Quidditch player, resting a hand on the wooden chair and gazing happily at the redhead.

The Weasley flinched somewhat at the sudden appearance, dragging him unwillingly from the depths of his mind and back into the harsh planes of reality. Indeed he hadn't, still wearing his hair long, his clothes as interesting and wild as ever and the small fang-shaped earring Wood had bought him nearly 4 years previously in a busy Egyptian market – though in his defence, he had liked the earring _a lot_ , regardless from where it had come.

However, little could be said about Oliver. He'd certainly grown and, under Bill's keen evaluation, the only thing that _hadn't_ actually altered about the boy – man rather – was the colour of his hair and the beady brown eyes that resided in his head.

The Curse-Breaker let out a delightful huff of laughter and beckoned to the younger man to take a seat.

"Well, no, I haven't. I suppose I don't really _try_ , do I? I'm perfectly pleased with surviving the day. I see no need to."

"Oh, I didn't realise they had dangerous jobs here in London..."

He let another smirk pass his face. "They don't. It's the boredom that I'm most worried about. Although... it has its ups – Two coffees, please," he motioned to a waitress.

"And they are...?" probed the younger of the pair.

"It's quite obvious. It's because I'm working with my-" For some reason, however, William stopped himself, something lying, a faint glimmer, in the backs of Oliver's intently viewing eyes that seemed to push him further and further from his initial, quickly swept goal. "-working with Goblins. They make you feel _incredibly_ tall. The best part being that after their snide and malicious comments, the second they get down from their podium you can just as easily sit on them."

He lifted the freshly brewed beverage from the table and gave the surface a quick blow.

"So what's ' _my wee Woody_ ' getting up to these days then?" he asked, receiving more pleasure from the use of the old nickname than was strictly acceptable for a soon to be married man.

"' _Your wee Woody_ ' is getting up to Puddlemere United. Only a reserve, though."

"Oh really? Wow, good for you! I bet you're loving it!"

"You have _no idea_ what I'm talking about," Oliver chuckled.

" _Not – a – clue_!"

He leant into the table on his elbows and pushed what little hair there was to push behind his ear, twirling the spoon about in his drink.

"You really _are_ still the same William Arthur Weasley I left back in Egypt, aren't you?" His arm extended out and he stroked the loose hair that framed Bill's face. "Still as stunning as I remember you."

For a fraction of a second, Bill leant into the younger's hand in a slight embrace, reminiscing; drawing away upon the sudden realisation of his impulse. "Please don't, Ollie. You didn't leave me, we both agreed it would be best. Don't treat me like some kind of ailing heart because I'm not."

"That's not what I'm saying," Wood heaved, frustratingly running long fingers through the brown mess that sprouted from his head. "Can a man no longer admire his long lost lover?"

A short sigh passed William's lips and he took a lingering sip of his coffee. "Has it ever crossed your mind that there might have been a _reason_ why we became 'long lost lovers', why we haven't had contact till now? I don't want to sound cliché, but I'm sure there is someone I'm destined to be with and clearly that someone just isn't you."

"Who says not? It's been 3 years for Merlin's sake! In that time you could have gotten married, had children. Isn't it fate enough that we're both sitting here as two single men after so many years apart?"

Bill shuffled uneasily in his seat, clutching desperately to the warm ceramics of the mug. "Oliver... Ollie... Please. Can't we just leave it as it were?" He took a last swig of his drink, grimacing at the bitter taste of the dregs sitting at the bottom of the cup, and insecurely rose to his feet, placing a small sum of money on the table. "Look, I have to get home – Fleu-m-mother might be getting worried. If you _really_ need to get in contact with me just send an owl, but otherwise-"

"Bill," Wood interrupted, placing a hand on his old lover's forearm in one final desperate attempt. "I don't like losing. You know that. Even if you have no feelings now, I will make you – no, forget that, I just sound like a pyco. Cut me a bit of slack. I've gotten a bit rusty when it comes to wooing cute young redheads back in love with me.”

William gave a brisk glance back at the boy, a warm old sympathy dancing in his eyes.

As much as he had wanted to dismiss them, he'd never thought he would once again feel stirrings for the young Quidditch player, even if they were only small patches, niggling at the back of his mind.

X

The Weasley stared into thick, red glow of the numbers on the alarm clock. Five thirty one in the morning. It had been almost two weeks since he'd met up with Oliver in the little café, the calendar progressing into May as of around six hours ago, and much to his disappointment he had not received a single word from man, writing nor speech. The digit on the timepiece rolled. Five thirty two. And again. Five thirty three. Already, the veil of night had began to lift, turning the sky a deep, piercing blue that crawled through the gaps in the curtains and stared him dead in the eye.  
He'd been awake for a while, Fleur's spindly arm draped over him in a state of sweet slumber, body immersed in the delicate caress of the duvet. For all intents and purposes, the girl was a splendid partner, and undeniably he did have feelings for her, though as of late he'd noticed something lacking in her touch, a missing spark. Not to say that he'd lost any compassion or love for the woman, he'd simply noticed a little break in the patch work that he vaguely recalled having once been filled by the muscled arms of a certain Oliver Wood; the feeling of being protected. From the side of someone who knew very little about him, it may have seemed rather pathetic, perhaps even stupid, but in his mind it showed perfectly reasonable – to feel protected there must be at least the smallest of notions that there is something out there you needed to be protected _from,_ and that sense of adventure, of threat, of pending danger was exactly the sort of thing that thrilled Bill Weasley.

Slipping his foot from beneath the covers, he placed it down on the wooden floor with a light thud; the boards groaning as he dragged himself up and across the room to rest on the windowsill, gazing out into the waking world. Something about this time in the morning had always sent a slight buzz through his body, a kicking necessity to stay awake despite how tired he had been before. He leant his head into his hand and slowly closed his eyes, turning to face the open window from which the subtle breaths of dawn blew. It had drizzled in the night, the dog-like scent of the wet tarmac below wafting three stories up to tingle in his nostrils, the quiet sound of hissing car tires as they rolled through the dampness. Though upon a lengthy glance the sky was perfect, only the orange gauze of light pollution on horizon tarnished the heavens as they glowed paler and paler, strewing spectacular colours over the untouched blue.

A sigh passed William's lips. He ached to escape from there, to break free from the cycle he'd worn himself into, but there was this ugly catastrophe he called 'work' to get through before Saturday, and then after that the slightly more attractive catastrophe he called 'darling'.

X

_Ollie,_

_I'm bored. I'm tired. Take me to the beach. I want to see the sea._

_Bill_

X

"Sorry I was late," sighed Wood, scratching the back of his head nervously. "I literally woke up about forty five minutes ago – barely had enough time to throw on some clothes, let alone shave. So please excuse my sordidness just for today."

A timid smile fluttered across Bill's face. "Yeah, don't worry about it. The rugged look suits you."

"Good, because I am going to _stink_ to the High Heavens of BO by midday if it stays this hot."

William laughed and turned outwards to stare at the sea as it lapped against the pebbles, leaving a faint dewiness on the surface of the rocks that glistened in the light as they moved across the sore. It was barely eleven o'clock in the morning and already small groups of people had congregated on the beach to soak up the first flickers of summer, littering themselves as pale, fleshy colours in the distance.

"You didn't send me any letters," he hummed, words mindlessly caught in the salty winds.

"What?"

"Letters. You didn't send any. I was sure I was going to be bombarded with them the second I left the café. But I got nothing."

Oliver cocked his head to the side and smirked. "There is a fine line between _Romanticism_ and _Stalking._ You needed time to think. I gave it to you. Admittedly, I was beginning to consider the latter, hadn't you sent an owl on Thursday. But if I had, I very much doubt we'd be with each other now."

"You think things through more than you'd expect for a Quidditch player."

Wood winked, taking his jacket off and laying it down on the stones before he sat facing the water. "Game tactics, Billy boy, game tactics."

For a moment, the Curse-Breaker eyed him awkwardly, cautiously placing himself down in the space beside and gazing out to the ocean, letting his mind lapse dreamily into the hiss of the sea, the cries of the gulls, the subtle breaths of an old lover. His mother had never approved of Fleur, right from the off, something about her attitude, the bluntness with which she spoke and her obvious adoration for his face was possibly what had done it for the woman, and yet he had always been certain that if she had met Oliver, if he were a girl and the girl he wanted to marry, Molly would have fallen in love with him as much as he had done, would have blessed the idea. He often used to fantasise about taking him home to The Burrow, even as a man, and revel in the happiness as the family fawned over them as a couple, as Oliver skipped off with his mother to bake a cake or have in-depth conversations about Quidditch with the budding players the were the Weasleys. Though in reality, he had never had the courage to tell anyone about this feeling, this wonderful, spectacular, blissfully dumbfounding feeling that had resided in the deepest recesses of his mind. And so he hid away the real him, the him only Wood had ever seen; denied himself the emotion so that his mother might one day smile and proudly say that he had given her a beautiful set of grand children.

Oliver pushed his hair around his head and leant back onto his hands. "I think I'm going to go in the sea..."

"Really?" William sighed, tilting to give a disapproving look to his junior. "Look at it: it's grey and dirty looking, and probably freezing. Are you _really_ going to sacrifice your nipples to get in that?"

A quaint smile slipped across the Quidditch player's face. "I'm Scottish."

"And...?"

"Well, in case it slipped your notice in the – what – seven years you were studying at Hogwarts, but _there is no. Such thing. As sun. In Scotland._ I'd have to be the middle of a snow storm with piranha infested waters before it stopped me going in there."

Bill peered off to the side and heaved to himself. Maybe this was a mistake. The man clearly wasn't as grown up as he'd though he was, the whole scenario of the romantic stroll on the beach as the sun set over the horizon ever so slowly slipping from his mind... Yes, he should get back home – Fleur might be lonely... Or Charlie might have made a surprise arrival at the Burrow for a family get together... Or Ron might be having love troubles and needed some friendly advice... Or...

"I assume you're not going to join me," Oliver chuckled, throwing his shirt next to himself and starting for his trousers.

The Weasley continued to look in the other direction and grunted in acknowledgement.

"Good, because I need someone to look after my clothes while I'm taking my dip. And, just so you know, if anything of mine gets stolen in my absence, I will be holding you personally responsible."

By the time he'd turned back, Wood was sprinting off down the pebbles into the crashing waves, leaving him alone to occupy himself.

"I guess I don't really have a choice..." he muttered and spread himself out against the cloth, watching the young man move in the water as he fiddled with his earring. From time to time, the Quidditch player would wave and grin in the distance, inviting him to pass one timidly back, body slightly panicking as his insides clenched, curling further into the fabric and indulging the old scent in his little dream world.

X

"You're going to burn if you fall asleep there," called Oliver's voice, skipping through the darkness of the Curse-Breaker's mind, lighting the black as it drove past, like the subtle works of the spring fairy after a particularly long and gruelling winter.

A low groan crawled from within him, eyes opening onto the silhouette of his half naked companion against the glaring azure sky. "How was the water?"

"Cold and wet," Wood muttered, suppressing a shiver and wiping a swelling droplet from beneath his nose. "...very, _very wet_. But exciting none the less – I seem to have roused a band of hormonal teens to my every waking call."

William gave an icy grunt and lay his head once more upon the smooth rocks, absorbing the sun's heat from their surface and growling to himself, "Bet that's just what you wanted."

A hearty laugh erupted from the Quidditch player's throat, "Someone's being a tetchy little bitch today, aren't they? If it's any consolation, some of them were asking about you – seems I'm not the only one who has a thing for tall, dark and sunburnt redheads... You know, I'm sure you'd be calmer if you just came swimming with me."

The Weasley turned to glare upwards, a fair flush on his cheeks, but still his eyes still held a firm grip of reproachfulness in their backs.

"Oh come on! And I thought you were supposed to be the adventurous one. What's more thrilling than the sea?" Oliver beamed, glimmering with some frightful impetuosity that seemed to spread over every inch of his frame.

_"Fine!_ I'll come!"

"Look, you don't have to," he muttered, eyebrows furrowing as his elder rose and began on his dragon hide boots. "It wasn't an order. If you really don't want to, you can just sit back down and snuggle with my trousers again."

The Curse-Breaker gazed up to the boy through a veil of daring red, face alight with a haze of rose and a long smile playing across his lips, one of sorts that kept unperturbed by the ails of the heart and the protests of the mind, pushing with great thrusts his previous animosity to the very backs of his consciousness.

"I was doing nothing of the likes," he grinned, shaking his head and throwing his shoes beside himself.

"Oh, you can't deny it, I saw you there."

"They were conveniently placed – a mere coincidence."

The Quidditch player smirked, clutching his hands together and batting his lashes. "You know you can't resist it. I'm like the more awesome male equivalent to a Veela."

Bill scanned him for a moment and snorted, "You keep on thinking that, Ollie, you keep on thinking that. It's not as if Veela are at all interesting or beautiful or anything."

"Oh, they are, it's just Oliver Wood beats Veela hands down!"

"Of course," he jeered, stopping at the water's edge and turning to rest his eyes upon the surface of the twenty-one year old's skin. "You beat everyone and anyone I've ever met: all of my friends, all of my colleagues, every girl I've ever slept with – it's endless."

The ocean lapsed over his toes and swilled about his ankles, nibbling incessantly at his feet with frosty pinpricks, though his gaze stayed firmly in place. A simple vehemence, in that moment, to which time had no place and 'goodbye' had no meaning, encompassed his very being, to recall once more the warm textures of the boy's hand, or feel his subtle embrace, or taste lingering beauty that lay between his lips. And, at that point, the existence that had become so futile, so unfruitful and unforgiving bore new light, a faint hope for a fresh adventure, the re-encounter of an old one rather, as he pulled Oliver Wood, the only reality he wanted to face, into the rippling waves and drew a from his mouth three years worth of painful longing.

"I missed you."


	2. Chapter 2

Bill Wealsey closed the door behind himself as he entered, instantly encompassed by the rich perfume of roses that flourished themselves in vases throughout the flat and brought about a sense, as was their nature, of overwhelming beauty and delicate romance, or some summertime liaison in which two lovers would rest themselves by the bank of a river, or in the hovel of the prickled rosebush, as the sun scattered in warm patches the golden glow of daytime, diminishing any commendation to the grey sheet that lay on the other side of the glass, spitting upon the city. It seemed that over the passing weeks Fleur had become ever more accustomed to the subtle influence of flowers, of simple romantic gestures, as if there were some prevailing point to prove or ideal to strife for, and he had found that she would often emerge to greet him with a smile on her face and the faint, forceful glow of the Veela within her.

"Bill, eez zat you?" came her voice, waltzing down the corridor. "Where 'ave you been? I 'ave been waiting."

"I told you earlier – I've been at my flying lessons," he called in return, tossing his jacket on a chair and making for the letters on the table.

"Yes, I know, you go a lot recently. But eet eez a bit late, no? I was 'oping zat we could maybe 'ave a romantic night before I visit my family," she beamed, skipping from the bedroom toward him. "Maybe a meal, or a feelm."

The Curse-Breaker adorned his face with a soft smile and wrapped his arms around the waist of his fiancée, leaning to peck her parting, "Anything you want, darling, anything at all."

X

"So, the girl's gone for two weeks, eh?" Charlie hummed between two short sips of firewhiskey, reclining against the bar and giving his brother a sceptical look. "What you gonna do in the mean time?"

For a moment, the twenty-six year old stared into his glass, listening to the voices that crawled about the pub, clamouring over one another for some resounding dominance but achieving no more than an irritating buzz. "The usual, I suppose: work, rest, rest some more, maybe drink a couple of butterbeers and chuck out all those dying flowers before she crushes them up and turns them into a set of revolting bath oils."

"You, William, are a terrible liar and a disgusting human being."

He furrowed his eyebrows, "I'm not sure what part of that statement makes me _either_ of those things..."

"Don't even _try_ to play dumb with me," the younger sighed, taking another swig from his glass. "I've known you since the dawn of time and I _think_ I would notice when you're bullshitting me."

"I honestly have no-"

"Private flying lessons, Bill," he snapped, slamming the cup down on the side and motioning for a refill, "any of this ringing a bell?"

"Oh," the Curse-Breaker heaved, "so you didn't come all the way here to be a good brother, but to spy on me for Fleur. Thank you _very_ much."

"Stop acting like the victim here," Charlie said, folding into his head into his hands and glaring down to the swirling grain of the wood beneath his elbows. "Don't you find it curious that, within the month and a half I tell Oliver Wood you're back in Britain, you start taking 'private flying lessons' and neglecting your fiancée?"

"I don't find it curious at all, Charles," he said, languidly scratching his chin. "In fact, I'll assure you it's _exactly_ what you think it is: Ollie is teaching me Quidditch. _What_ – _a_ – **_scandal_**! I can hardly contain the repulsion I feel for myself!"

"...You're taking the piss..."

" _Well done_!"

The Dragonologist cast his sibling a look of pure repugnance and savoured another mouthful of the glittering, brown liquid that swilled in his glass; contemplating the human species and it's many, many faults. If the truth be known, he would have rather spent the rest of his life in solitary with a raving band of dragons than the frivols of humanity; indeed, the chance of being scorched to death was a terrifying concept, but he found it considerably more appealing than a woman ever could be and besides, as of late, he was quite lacking in the faith in human nature to ever adopt one of his own.

"I don't see what's wrong with her," he muttered, picking over the nuts in the bowl and slipping the cleaner looking ones into his mouth. "She's perfect."

Bill sighed and gazed into the fire, watching as it licked about the stone that surrounded it and spat long, elegant sparks into the air. "I know... she's just – how do I put this?... _too_ perfect."

"How can anybody be 'too perfect'? There's perfect and then there's imperfect. That's it."

"Yes, but," he glided a finger across his forehead and rubbed at his temple, as if attempting to will some lost sentiment from the back of his mind and onto the tabletop, "well... she's just not _my_ kind of perfect."

"What, and Oliver _is?"_

The Curse-Breaker glowered at the younger man and shook his head, "Why do you keep on assuming it's Ollie? The are _millions_ of other people in London alone – he's not the only one."

"Ah, but you see," Charlie smirked, "I didn't make a surprise visit to your flat in Egypt five years ago to find the entire population of London sitting stark naked in your cupboard while you made coffee. Now, are you going to tell me what you're _actually_ doing with your free time?"

William gave a faint shrug and pulled his hair from it's ponytail. "Well, if you really want to hear it: sleeping, working, eating and shagging."

"How can you say that so casually?" His brother groused, a tangled expression playing across his face. "I knew you were an arsehole but Merlin, Bill! If you're not happy with her, why don't you just _leave_?"

"I am happy with her, it's just..." he clasped a hand around his face and clawed at his eyes, lost in the pounding thoughts that crowded his head, trying to push two puzzle pieces together that clearly didn't fit. "I don't know... Sometimes it just feels more fun with two, more of a challenge, more of an adventure. Anyway, I suppose... it's a sort of backup plan – if she ever left me, I'm sure she could find a new man within thirty seconds and me, well, that might take while."

"So, you're a coward," Charlie uttered, leaning back into his stool and languishing in the construct. "You know, one day, one of them is going to find out. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or this year even, but it's going to happen and when it does, you won't have the choice any more – you'll have lost one of the people you love the most, maybe even both, and when they're gone and you realise you've been wrong all along, you're going to have to wade through seven shades of shit to get them back and you might not even be so lucky – neither of them are the sorts of people who will very kindly to being second best."

The older Weasley played his fingers through the strings of his hair and did not reply, feeling every breath that entered and vacated his body, the faint pump of the heart that lay beneath his chest, so full of emotion that he thought it might burst. The Dragonologist had spoken of choices, but he was certain that the man could not comprehend the sensation or understand anything more than he had, by chance, read in books or heard in subtle conversation, for he, himself, had only come to learn that there was no choice, or rather, the only choice that remained was to keep them both, as he would surely miss either if he left one behind.

X

William leant into his lover's chest, listening to the rain as it pattered against the pavement and tapped it's icy fingers upon the glass in the windows. He had always loved the feeling of a storm; the budding thrill of the thunder as it rippled across the sky and echoed street by street through the city; the sharp, silvery accents lightening would cast over his surroundings; the comforting hiss of the water as it cascaded from the rooftops and coursed the side of the road – a sweet lament to the winter passed.

"Are we getting up any time today?" Oliver whispered, looking down to him and pressing his nose to the top of his head. "It's already five in the afternoon."

A quiet breath slipped the Curse-Breaker's mouth and he nested himself further into the boy, closing his eyes. "Just a while longer. I want to be able to forget myself for a moment; I don't want to think about work, or the world, or Charlie, or my mother. I just want to be with you and the rain."

Wood let a huff of laughter slip from within himself, "I told you it was fate."

"Nothing's fate," he sighed, gazing upward, "love is an inevitable part of living – much like death I suppose."

The Quidditch player bore a toothy grin and tilted his head to the side. "I much prefer the idea of fate – it's predetermined, though no one can predict it. It also means," he mused through a slight smirk, "that _you_ are my fate, that you're mine."

"And what if I don't _want_ to be anybody's anything?"

"Then you must lead a very lonely existence."

The Weasley contemplated the notion for a moment, tearing from the embrace to pace toward the window and peer into the pouring rain, as he often did when his mind was troubled, watching as the street lamps flickered into life, one by one. Perhaps, indeed, he was lonely, or at best some kind of recluse – he scared to think how often he actually caroused with his colleagues outside of work, or any of his old friends for that matter – he had been too long gone and he had left any friends he had made in the meantime back in Egypt.

"Sorry, Bill," the twenty-one year old muttered, crawling over the mattress and wrapping himself around the red head. "I didn't mean it."

William turned his face to him, curling his lips into a faint smile and breathing solemn breaths against the boys cheeks.

"Come on," he grinned, snatching the Curse-Breaker's hands and pulling him from his sombre perch upon the window sill. "Smile for me."

"No."

Oliver drew his wand from the bedside table and gave the radio a quick tap. "I'll have to sing for you."

"You wouldn't," he smirked, "you don't sing, you just mumble words – it's mortifying."

"There you go," the Quidditch player beamed. "Aren't you beautiful when you smile?"

A warm flush graced Bill's cheeks and he simpered, averting his gaze. He had quite forgotten the sensation of being wooed, of being inadvertently and unconditionally in love with another human being, or at least in the presence of one with such panache that the prospect of being charmed to the point of no return was nothing less than a certainty, for Oliver Wood was, by any other name, a prince, a king, a knight in shining armour - the sort of creation that would play in countless fairytales and appear in bitter-sweet romance novels aimed at forlorn, middle-aged women for whom the pinnacle of their day was reposing with said story as they stagnated in baby sick and washing-up liquid.

The man was perfect and William Weasley was not prepared to throw away his chance at ultimate happiness for the sake of his younger brother.


	3. Chapter 3

X

_Miss you already, angel face. We need to do that more. Everything’s so lonely when you’re not around – my living space seems to be lacking in ginger and it feels wrong._

_Do you happen to have any days off any time soon? We could go abroad, take a long weekend somewhere romantic: Paris or Rome maybe?_

_Ollie x_

X

_I miss you too and my living space seems to be lacking in muscled Scot as well. We can get them together and call it a party._

_No, not officially, but I think I can make some – sick days remaining and all that. I know a really lovely place just by the sea. Give me a time, date and location and I’ll be there._

_Love you xx_

_P.S. Bring a kilt. I’m not coming if you don’t have a kilt._

X

Bill rolled his head against the steering wheel and stared into the darkness beside him. The journey over had been taxing on both the body and the mind; slowly and surely it had whittled away into his bones until his body ached with fatigue and his head twitched with untameable thoughts. Fleur had known there was something wrong before he’d left; he’d seen it in her eyes, the way that she’d gripped his hand, the way her lips had lingered on his for a fraction too long and the words on her tongue. He could tell she’d known there was no ‘work friend’ waiting for him on the coast, no ‘old colleague’, she just hadn’t know that his second life was stood, bags in hand, on the pavement below.

To the left of him, the Quidditch player shuffled, the corners of his mouth upturned into a peaceful smile, like that of a child, lost in a wondrous dreamland. The picture of pure innocence. And he truthfully was: he’d never tasted the world in the same way; he’d never been touched by it in the same way; he’d never looked at it, _truly looked at it_ , stared deep into its eyes and discovered the hideous monstrosity that presented itself behind a veil of hate and beautiful lies. But, maybe that was for the better. Bitterness was overrated. It made you selfish and ugly.

The Curse-Breaker reached over and stroked a lock of thick, brown hair from the boy’s face, to rest a kiss on his forehead. “I’m sorry, Ollie. I need to walk this one off.”

A cool breeze caught him as he stepped from the car and onto the meadow before him, the final remnants of the once wide barrier between the gnarled old hotel and the crashing waves. In a matter of fifteen years, he observed, the cliff's edge had drawn ever closer to the construction that he'd spent so many summer months in as a child - and would no doubt continue to do so, permanence had never held him dearly - so that the once shrouded pathway that lead to beach now barely tickled the drop. And so it seemed, with no more than thirty metres and a couple of benches to save itself, the south wall of the building peered into the sea far below.

He pinched the bridge of his nose and stared into the distance, across rippling waves onto which moonlight glittered, listening to the breath of the ocean and the distant clanking of the boats on the harbour.

Why was everything so hard? Could he not just split in two and lead pair of wholly different yet equally rewarding lives? Or... He tapped his foot against the very edge of the cliff and watched it crumble into the sea. Or he could finish it all... sacrifice himself in the ultimate romantic gesture and then he wouldn’t have to deal with any of it, because deep down he knew that if it came to it Oliver Wood would be the answer and the rest of his life as a respected member of the family, of society even, would dissolve into dust. With that mindset, he could play it like Romeo and Juliet, he could tell him about Fleur, about everything, and they could do it together – the car wasn’t that far away and crashing it into the water would be easy enough if you switched off the flying mode. Maybe it’d become a statement. Maybe it’d become a headline. And then he wouldn’t have to worry because everybody would already know.

A set of warm fingers slid between his and enclosed upon his hand.

“I’m sorry I didn’t wake up,” came a soft voice from the darkness, “I hope you haven’t been out here for long. I wouldn’t want you to catch a cold...”

For a while, the twenty-six year old heaved, gripping tighter and tighter to his lover as if he were afraid that at any moment they might be ripped apart.

“Do you think...” he muttered, gazing firmly into the eyes that faced him, “Well, I mean... if I were to... to... go... would you come with me?”

Wood’s eyebrows narrowed. “Are you alright? I’m not going anywhere, Bill. I’m not just going to leave you behind and I’m not going to let you leave me behind either. I don’t know what... Is there something you’re not telling me? You know I’m here if you need to talk. Or-“

“No, it’s just,” the Weasley leant into his junior, “I love you so much. And, and I’m scared that something’s going to happen.”

Oliver’s face lit up in the heart-warming, butterfly inducing way it had always done when he was so overjoyed you could almost feel it radiating off his body – to the extent that in cold winters one may have been able to heat their whole house on it, if they had kept him warm and content, and worked out how to turn it into their own renewable energy source.

With his free hand, he cupped Bill’s face, brushing a wild strand of auburn hair back behind his ear and into the moonlight, where it gracefully glowed like some precious gem. “And what if it does happen? Things happen all the time. It doesn’t matter if you’re strong enough to get through it.”

X

*“I didn’t know who else to come to,” she sighed, recoiling in the comfort of her sister’s favourite _‘nounours’._ “I’m sorry to burden you with this, Gabby, and you’re probably too young to understand it very well but,” she gave out a quiet whimper, “I couldn’t just hold it up inside of myself for that long.”

The young Beauxbatons student cradled her sister in her arms. “No, I understand well. The other day, I saw my Pierre kissing that Sauvageau cow! She’s not even that pretty!”

Fleur withdrew herself to the wall. The girl didn’t understand at all. Relationships, boyfriends, girlfriends, at that age they were just a game. But this here, this was her life playing out in front of her. She was looking at the line between a life of happiness and a life of misery, and now she wasn’t sure which side she was standing on. There had been a time, not so long ago, where she could honestly say with all the love in her body and the passion in her heart that William Weasley was her happiness and a life without him would surely be the most doleful in existence, but as of late her faith had dwindled.

“You know,” Gabrielle smiled, resting her hand on Fleur’s, “he might just be going to Cornwall to organise a wedding gift or find a cake maker. It might not be what you think. You could just ask him. Tell him you’re worried and he’ll tell you the truth.”

The elder sister heaved long and deep. “You’re too optimistic... Besides, if I did ask him, who says he’d tell the truth? And if he did and he was cheating, what would I do?”

Her fist trembled, clenching a piece of parchment that was folded as small as one could make it, corners stabbing into the palm of her hand to the point that, if she held any tighter, it may well have drawn  blood. Carefully she opened it, offering her sister a final piece of proof.

“I found it in his trouser pocket.”

It was unfolded once, twice, three times and again and again and again, until an unfamiliar script was open before them.

“Who’s Ollie?”

X

Morning crept from the east, over cliffs and hills, and arches and stacks, shining in shades of pink, purple, orange and most perfect blues upon the water and in the shadows, following westward up the coastal path to where curtains fluttered in the breeze and the two young wizards lay shrouded in crisp white sheets and the dusty scent of hotel linen.

Oliver’s eyes traced the lines of his partner’s face, the strands of light that trickled over his pale skin and smiled to himself, running the tips of his fingers over the bare forehead below.

Just less than three years ago, he wouldn’t have believed it if one had told him he’d be spending today, now and here – the first day of summer – breathing the crisp sea air, or even the same air at all, with the very Bill Weasley who, no more than a month ago, had sent him packing ‘for the sake of his future’. I dare say, he would have spat in your face and ripped the very heart from your chest at even the slightest mention of the man’s name, let alone a prophecy such as that.

But in this moment he was content, and he imagined he always would be, for his youth brought him time, and time brought William Arthur Weasley. It was hard to feel sad when he spent every spare second gazing at the man he had fallen - and might still be falling – in overwhelming, irrevocable and unconditional love with, and who in turn, dare he venture, may even feel the same for him.

Wood leant down and nibbled on the Curse-Breaker's ear, waiting for the instant he roused from his sleep and his gentle auburn lashes fluttered into life.

“Run away with me...” he whispered, through a faint drowsy smile.

The boy laughed. “I was about to ask you exactly the same thing.”

“The difference is,” Bill said, letting his eyes drift and meet with his partner's, “I'm not joking.”

Oliver's brow furrowed and he puckered his lips. “We're adults, Biscuit. We have nothing to run away _from.”_

“We have a war to get away from. And families and friends and anyone who doesn't approve of us, of _what we have_.”

The Quidditch player slid out of the bed and strolled across the room, to rest his arm on the window ledge and watch blades of grass dance and sway in the current, thinking to himself for a while.

“You're not a coward, Bill. You know that. I know that. Don't pretend that you are, because it's really not flattering. The man I know wouldn't worry about a war, he'd right in the middle of it with everyone else, saving lives and looking damn fine doing it.”

The Weasley sat up, resting his feet on the wooden floorboards. “The man you knew didn't have anything to lose. I've grown up. I've learnt that some things aren't worth dying for, they're worth saving while you _still can_.”

“You're not saving your family by running away. Don't give me that shit. If there's something up, just bloody-well tell me.”

William sighed. No matter how fast you ran, life always caught up with you in the end. It always knew in what dark pits you where you were hiding and exactly how to draw you out, make you say things, do things, that you never planned on doing. “There was... a girl. A while back. We got engaged... but then I realised she wasn't as beautiful as I thought she was, outside or in. But I can't seem to shake her. Not as a concept, as a person. She's everywhere and nowhere all at once.” He took deep breath. “But not when I'm with you, Ollie. I don't close my eyes and see her face anymore. I see yours. And that's all I ever want to see.”

Two willowy arms secured Oliver's waist and a pair of lips brushed his earlobes, emitting sweet, steady breaths.

“Besides, you remind me of the kid I used to be. Even the way you're standing, don't you remember that day? In the Gryffindor Common Room?” The Curse-Breaker muttered, the hint of a smile lingering in his words. “You were Percy's new treasure – the acclaimed roommate – and I 'just had to meet you'.”

A smile adorned the twenty-one year old’s face. The passing nine years had very nearly struck the account from his memory, along with sheer will of a broken-hearted teenager. But indeed, at that time he had stood as he did now, gazing upon the Hogwarts’ grounds, wind gracefully sweeping the lengths of his hair. William had come in a free period, having been escorted by his younger sibling to revel in the spectacle that was a young Oliver Wood. Though barely twelve, the boy had certainly been unique from the snivelling children that would regularly pass under his nose, with bold, determined eyes and a naive smile that had graciously complemented his composition. Thenceforth, he would spend every mealtime with the Weasleys, intently discussing Quidditch and the various other subjects that captivated their hearts, up until the point, of course, that Percival came to the conclusion that he was far too distracting and far too little focused on good grades and good behaviour to warrant any more interest. On his part, at least.

And to that thought, Wood twisted round, lips parted, and kissed the red-head: gently, slowly, quietly; like he did when he was 16; like he did when he first mustered the courage to kiss the man, in the lonely dining hall of the Weasley house, while the 19th birthday party of his closest friend erupted in the room beside them.

“If you really want to run away,  I'm coming with you.”


	4. Chapter 4

X

_Victoria Station Floo Network. A week from today. I can't say a time: I've got to do some things for the Order before I leave and I don't know when I'll be done. Just pack everything you need and be there._

_Love you and thinking of you always,_

_Your Dearest Biscuit xx_

X

Summer heat swelled in the air, sweaty, unpleasant, crawling between hoards and hoards of men, women and children, shuffling amongst themselves and prizing their skin from wet, old work shirts, letting the ripe smell of London commuters drift about the tunnels. On good days, the passing trains and moving feet would waft a cool breeze through the underground station, to where Oliver Wood perched on top of a suitcase, clutching onto his well-disguised broomstick and making eye contact with unaware Muggles whose gaze had strayed, if only for a moment, across the hidden entrance to the Floo Line. On other days, he would simply swelter, until night fell and brought a refreshing lull in the temperature.

“We're closing up, mate. If there's no sign of him yet, you ain't goin' nowhere tonight - unless you're plannin' on leavin' in the next 10 seconds,” called a friendly voice from behind the Quidditch player, to the sound of closing wooden panels and sliding metal grates.

Wood rose to his feet and let out a deep sigh, as the stranger's hand glided along his shoulder and gave a compassionate squeeze. Though they didn't know each other's names, he considered the man a friend, true as any. And when he returned home, his mother still waiting patiently in the front room for yesterday's paper, he'd say 'the bloke with the suitcase was there again today, what a waste'. It was the sort of thing the newspaper salesman would have liked to write about – as his ma had always said, some stories were made to be novels – but limited education and social class only got you so far and there was a reason why you never heard about witches called Shinqua and Chardonnay or wizards called Krayg studying at Hogwarts, and the reason _definitely wasn't_ because they didn't exist or didn't want to go there.

“I guess your day just hasn't come yet. Maybe tomorrow'll bring better things. Got me fingers crossed for ya,” he said through an increasingly false smile.

There were only so many days you could recite those lines before your genuine optimism began to drain. There were only so many days you could tolerate watching the man sit there, waiting for someone who may or may not arrive and offering scraps of parchment on which short accounts of people and days were written, to be compiled later, just in case this so called 'lover' was out there somewhere, pining for his words.

X

“You don't understand, he's _waiting for me_ ,” William hissed, as his younger brother pinned him to the mattress by his shoulders.

He'd spent most of his time – over the two weeks that had passed in hospital or cozied in a bed at home - sleeping, and the rest he spent trying his best not to sleep, or rather, to leave. As quickly and quietly as possible. He'd tried leaving in the dead of night or while everyone was eating or, and this was his favourite, while everyone _thought_ he was sleeping. Though he never seemed to get far. Fatigue usually got the best of him and Charlie, who seemed to be exceptionally good at anticipating when he planned to escape, would often be waiting in the dark, wand at the ready, to nudge – or carry him, depending on how defiant he was feeling in that particular moment - back upstairs. It had even gotten to the point, after some deliberation from the whole family, to post the Dragonologist in the room at all hours, with a makeshift bed in front of the door, and to nail shut all windows that the man could conceivably squeeze through, just in case he got any bright ideas.

Mrs Weasley had put it down to his nature, his blood. He was far too like her own brothers and, though it made her smile, it also worried her immensely. Fleur had agreed, it was his nature, but it was probably also _other things_ , ones that she'd rather not mention. Charles had simply crossed his arms and said nothing.

“I do understand, Bill, and that's the problem. If he's waited for you this long, he can wait for you just a bit longer.”

The Curse-Breaker tried to push against the force, but was failing spectacularly. “No. I need to see him _now._ I _need_ to _leave.”_

“And go where? Once you're gone, are you gonna come back? Who's gonna be there for _our_ mother? _Who's_ gonna be there for _your_ fiancée?” Charlie bore down a little harder, _“Who's_ going to be there for the friend _you_ stole from _me_ when you're done with him or when these wounds _kill_ you because you're _too stupid_ to tell what is and isn't good for you, _eh?_ Who? Because I'm going to be back in Romania and you sure as hell aren't going to be there anymore.”

The twenty-six year old averted his gaze and stopped pushing. “I'm not going to be 'done with him'.”

“You said that to Fleur when you asked her to marry you and look where we are.”

“Not in those words,” he muttered.

“That's not the point,” said the Dragonologist with a sigh. “You don't need to worry about him for the while. He's still writing to you most days. Sometimes he writes twice. There's enough faith and love in those letters to carry you both to the moon and back.”

Bill shuffled uneasily against the sheets, growing ever more irritable by the second. “I've never seen them.”

“That's because I don't want you, or anyone else for that matter, to see them. You've got everyone here worried sick about you as it is and having you running off to _Merlin-knows-where_ isn't going to do anyone a lot of good.”

Charlie Weasley was a doing man and his brother knew that well. When he thought – and if he thought at all - he would do so briefly and decisively, in a way that dispelled even the smallest margin for chaos and casualty. It was a trait that came with working along side a lot of large and dangerous creatures and slightly smaller but equally as dangerous human beings, if only due to their stupidity and excitable nature.

“I'll strike you a deal then,” William said, hoisting himself upright against the backboard, and winced slightly. “You read me the letters,” he raised his finger as his brother opened his mouth to speak. “Four a day. For every four letters you read, I'll stay another day. I won't even try to leave. If I choose to leave when you've run out, it's on my head. You can't do anything about it.”

The younger sibling gave a begrudging nod. It was settled.

X

_I miss you, Bill._

_I don't know where you are. But I hope wherever that is, you're safe and warm and with people that love you. And if you're not, I hope you can see these and know at least that there's someone out there who does... Or use them for fires. I guess if you're out in the wilderness, eating squirrels and wet leaves, warm words aren't going to be much use. And even if you're in some kind of prison, be a good lad and burn down for your Wee Woody. Just be the brave man I always knew you were._

_The kid with the newspapers is still around. He sits with me to have his lunch and we talk quite a bit. He's a really nice boy. Won't let me read the list of 'Dead or Missing' by myself. He thinks I need the company, ~~especially, if you're, you know~~ I probably do. But the lists are getting longer. I'm scared I've missed your name somewhere. I can't think from one thing to the next between you and the angry letters from PU. My paid leave has run out. And the bills, Merlin. There are so many bills._

_~~I Well~~ _

_~~You~~ _

_~~Sometimes~~ _

_~~You see, it's gotten to the point~~ _

_Frankly, I don't really know why I'm writing these any more. They're more for me than anything. Same with the waiting. If you were here you'd probably punch me and call me a hopeless romantic. You're not. I should probably get to grips with it really. A man can only live on hope for so long I suppose. I just miss you, so much it hurts. I miss the way your hair glows. I miss the way your lips curl when you smile and the corners of your eyes crease up. I miss your perfect skin and your perfect nose and your perfect fingers. I miss every inch of your body. Your kisses. The way you touch me and how I feel when you're in my arms._

_I miss the way you say 'I love you'._

_I still check this list, Biscuit, because I'm hopeful. Because deep down there's a little bit of me that really, really hopes that you're dead. So they can't take your smile. Or at best, even if this is probably one of the most vain things I've ever written down in my entire life, so I know that you died loving me._

_I can't bring myself to live with the alternatives._

_Love you always,_

_Oliver Wood_

X

William let his fingers drift over his face as his brother read the last letter, feeling every horrific lump and groove that tarnished his skin, the line that had torn a great slice from his lips and left hideous clefts in all the wrong places. One of his eyes barely opened anymore and there were vast chunks missing from his nose. He hadn't thought about them much before, beside the uncontrollable amount of pain they brought him. But they weren't the romantic or mysterious scars he'd imagined, now that he could feel them. They'd completely destroyed one side of his face. He didn't need a mirror to know that. They were the sort of marks that meant he'd spend the rest of his life parting his hair over to one side lest people spoke in hushed tones as he walked past and children tugged at their mothers arms, wondering why the strange man's face was so broken.

He wasn't one to cry, it went against the certain stoic and rebellious air he had. But listening to the words Oliver had written stirred him, right down to his gut, and he could feel his eyes welling and his nose tingling. Sometimes he wished he was dead too.

Charles rested the letter on his lap and turned to his brother. “Are you al-”

“You read all these before? You knew he said that.” The voice that spoke was feeble, not with weakness, but filled with quiet anger and regret. “Why didn't you read it earlier? Why didn't you just tell me?”

“Because I knew they were making you better. It was something for you to wake up in the morning – that wasn't wasting your energy trying to run away.”

“But he's _hurting,”_ said Bill, leaning forward and glaring at the Dragonologist. “And you're just letting that happen. If I'd been there for him weeks ago when I _wanted_ to leave, he wouldn't've felt that because I would have been there for him. You call yourself a friend? You're barely even good at being a brother!”

“I was doing what was best for both of you. I thought you'd be able to see that,” the younger man growled.

“What, by dictating my life like I'm some kind of child? Yeah. Great. _Perfect._ That turned out well. Now we're _both_ miserable. Congratu-fucking-lations!”

Charlie could feel the blood rushing in his head, the rage rising like a storm within him. Hitting a sick man, or anyone really, was against his principles. But Merlin, the world was testing him today.

He grabbed his brother by the arms and looked him deep in the eyes, their faces barely centimetres apart, seething, “I thought you'd realise when I read that but you're obviously not that clever. He's running out of money, Bill. He's on the cusp of losing his job, which - if you paid any actual attention to him besides pissing around under the bed sheets you would know - he has been dreaming of since he was in school. Jobs like that don't just grow on trees and he's got enough talent to make it all the way if you didn't keep holding him back.”

“I'm not holding him back! He can do it with me. I can help him.”

“By making him drop it all so you can run away from the mess you've made?” Charles gripped harder, barely thinking. He was almost spitting. “You don't get it! But hopefully those gashes in your pretty little face might make it a bit easier to seep through your thick skull. Everything he's written down is adding up and will keep on adding up and getting worse and worse and worse until you make a stand and stop it. Love doesn't pay bills or wipe away debt. So for once in your life could you listen to me and understand what I'm say when I say it: You. _Are ruining_. **_His life!_** ”

William's heart floundered in his chest and shrunk so low that, for a minute, he thought it had stopped beating all together.

In this world, there are good people and there are bad people; most know what they are, or if they're neither; others don't and learn to live with it. But the worst kind of person is a bad person who believes whole-heartedly that they are good. And in that moment, as those final words shot from his younger siblings mouth, W.A. Weasley realised he was one of those people.

Perhaps to Wood, he was better off dead.


	5. Chapter 5

The sky hung drearily overhead, sagging here and there in giant grey lumps that oozed with misery. It was the sort of sky you woke up to on a Saturday morning in July, having had wonderful dreams of the trees, the grass, the musty smell of dried mud on your feet as you walked in the sun, and simply thought, no, today's cancelled, I'm going back to bed. It was the sort of sky that, if it wasn't raining or storming already, it was definitely thinking about it.

But Oliver Wood was up, or rather awake, nestled in some pebbles and facing out to see. It was the seventh time he'd slipped down the bank and he'd resigned his efforts for standing. If they wanted him somewhere else, well, they'd have to make do with him skidding along the seafront on his arse. Besides, the letter he'd received hadn't exactly filled him with enthusiasm. It had simply said 'Meet my by the sea' with a time and a date on it, and not much else. No one had even signed a name. But he assumed, from the handwriting, that it was indeed a Weasley – they all had that sort of contagious kind, much like some have with  accents, where all the men wrote like a slightly updated version of their father, except in their case their father wrote like a drug-addled 19th century poet. Nevertheless, it was distinctive enough and yet so closely knit that Wood had a mental category for it that just said Wealseys.

There was a vain part of him that really wished it was Charlie, all the way from Romania. He was the person that boy needed most right now, not for comfort – he wasn't that kind of friend – but to take his mind off things and chat idly about Quidditch and Dragons and useful Romanian phrases or swears that loosely translated to 'Fuck your mother's dead relatives'. Anything to make make him forget how empty and alone he felt. Charlie wouldn't leave him waiting on a platform for weeks, even if he died. There was always a back-up plan where Charlie was involved.

Oliver sighed.

But that's what he loved about Bill. There was no back-up plan. You made it up as you went. It wasn't the kind of love and affection that you couldn't bottle or hold or put a ring on. It kept on moving because it wanted to, not because you were leading it places. It was just- It hurt, that was the problem. If Bill turned up and faced him and pretended nothing had happened, he wouldn't know what to do. Frankly, he wouldn't know what to do if he turned up at all. But knowing was different from acting.

X

He dragged his hands through the rocks, listening to the crisp sound as they knocked together, and launched a few towards the ocean. Some made it to the water, others bounced across the beach and came to a standstill disappointingly far away.

A soft, familiar face pressed up against his back and two white sets of fingers entwined with his own, to the sound of gentle shuffling and crunching behind him. “Hey, Ollie,” it said quietly.

The twenty-one year old's eyebrows furrowed. He wanted to say 'leave'. He wanted to hit him. He wanted to kiss him. He wanted to look him right in the eyes and say 'Who do you think you are?'

Instead, he said nothing. He barely breathed.

“I'm sorry,” ventured the voice. “I didn't mean to... to...” There was a shuffling. “Please don't look at me.”

“Why would I want to?” It sounded a lot more bitter than Oliver had intended but he stood with it, “So you can trick me again? So I can look into those- into your eyes and forget that you ma- that I was stupid enough to sit and wait for you like a fucking wally for two weeks instead of doing something productive with my life like – oh, you know – _not_ getting fired.”

“I'm sorry. I really I am. I just got very sick. For a long time,” Bill placed a kiss on his partner's neck. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” his fingers gripped to those in his hand, “but you can't do that, Biscuit. You cut me out of the picture completely. All I needed was one letter. One. I thought you were dead.”

“I know, I know. But I don't want to talk about that, that's not why I'm here.”

Wood twisted round on the spot and looked to William. He had his hair down. It cupped one side of his face and obscured the other, so that all he could see was a glint of bright blue between a mass of amber and the side that resembled most the face he knew so well. He liked it, he thought it was trendy.

“You're beautiful,” the Quidditch player said with a delicate smile, reaching out and stroking the man's skin, and brushing gently at the mess beside his nose.

A hand grabbed him in the motion. “Please don't, for me. Just don't.”

“Oh, am I ruining your 'look'?” He laughed, “You were always a bit of a pansy when it came to fashion.”

“It's not that, Ollie. Just please. Don't look at me.” The words trembled in the Curse-Breaker's mouth, “Please.”

“It's not like I'm a stranger unbuttoning your trousers, I've seen your face before. And a lot more as a matter of fact,” the boy said. “So, you going to tell me why you're being so weird or do I have to find out for myself? Thirty Galleons says it's a spot.”

“It's not a spot.” William heaved a deep breath and looked to wards the waves. The salty air, however sheltered they may have been, stung deep into the groves. “I don't want you to see me like this. Just trust me when I say I'm not as beautiful as you think I am, not any more. I'm not even sure I ever was.”

A kiss was placed on his forehead and then his cheek and then corner of his mouth, “As long as you're alive, you'll always be as beautiful as you were the day I met you. No matter what happens to your face.”

“No matter?” He pushed a little hair behind his ear, so the scars on his lips and his cheek were visible. “Not even if half my face has been ripped off by a werewolf?”

Oliver smiled and rested his lips on all the marks he saw. “Not even a bit.”

Twenty-six year old grinned, so wide and so brightly, that the stars would fall to their feet if ever they saw it. His heart fluttered in his chest. But things weren't supposed to be like this. Perfection - however imperfect and blissful it might be - was an illusion. It turned, hurt deep down to the very of core his being, so that all remained was a loving grimace and quiet hot tears rolling down his face. Some people were too good for this world. Some people loved until it killed them – or if not, till it shattered their life completely.

“I love you, Ollie... Remember that... If you're- If you're ever alone or lost, I'll be there... right there in your heart waiting for you. But you've got to live... even if that isn't with me. You've got to find someone who can love you back as hard as I do...” His voice fell apart as the words came out, “Somebody who won't just... just... spoil you and break you into tiny little pieces that can't be repaired... Because that's what I'm doing... That's what I'm doing to everyone. She doesn't need it; I don't need it; you - you don't need me. I could love you till the end of time. I probably will. But. But that's not what you need... You need to be free...” He drew his wand from his pocket, and felt the tears drip into his hand. “When you think of me... I... Believe in your heart of hearts, Ollie... Believe that I died loving you. Because even if I'm not dead yet, one day I will be, and you'll still be My Wee Woody. Even after I'm gone.”

Wood stared blankly at the man, almost through him, to the cruelest of endings and the harshest of worlds and they stared right back of him. It served him right for being different, for loving as much as you could, for disregarding the rules. The world just wanted to watch him crumble, and part of him wanted to let it. All he had left was hope. “No... no-no-No, you can't. Bill, you can't do this. I love you, Bill. We can make it right. We can be together, it'll all be fine. We can still _leave._ We can still be _happy._ Don't you trust me?”

“I do. We can be happy together, but that's not enough. I'm holding you back and I can't do that anymore. It has to stop and I've got to be the one to stop it.”

The Curse-Breaker rose his wand to the other wizard's head.

“No, please, just stop. You tired and sick and probably a stir crazy. Don't do this, Bill. You're scaring me. Stop it. Bill. _It's not funny_!”

“When you think of me, remember that I always loved you.” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

"No you-"

A gentle charm was muttered and the figure before him slumped to the ground, serene and quiet. He'd done the right thing. Or he believed he had, and that was worth enough.

Hope is the killer of many a faithful man.

X

“He's gone, Wood.”

“What do you mean, Charlie? He's gone where?”

“Somewhere he can't come back from.”

“Oh... Ok... Well, sorry for that and for falling asleep, I didn't know when you were coming. Wasn't even sure it'd be you. My face is sore.”

“That's alright, probably sunburn. Want to get some fish and chips? There's a good place just down the road. How's stuff at Puddlemere?”

“Not very good, you know, when you disappear for two weeks without warning. I'm not sure why I did it, probably having a silly moment. Me and your brother had joked about ' _running away_ ' – though you can't really run away with a dead man, unless you steal his corpse, but this war doesn't seem to leave many for collecting. But I mean, _really,_ what kind of person sits in a station for two weeks just for the sake of it – other than me of course? But, well, I don't know, I was having this odd dream earlier and I think I should probably get it all back on track. Be the best I can be. Dream jobs like this don't grow on trees, you know... I'm rambling.”

A smile trickled across Charlie's face. Even if it mean lying, or twisting the truth just a little too far, it was good to have his old friend back.


	6. Chapter 6

Oliver moved on, got a life and succeeded with it. He couldn't remember the exact day he stopped loving Bill, he wasn't sure he had really. But he could see it all, in a line, and somewhere, when he was sitting in the station, it was just as if he'd forgotten to love him and had done so every day since.

Sometimes he thought he saw ghosts of the man, at the Battle of Hogwarts, in the street as he walked to work, as little red flickers in the crowd as he played the most important game of the season. They made his chest ache, small twinges in the depths of his heart, as if he was remembering something awful he’d long forgotten. But to him, that's all they were. Ghosts. And even then, he didn't like to believe in things you couldn't punch.

Even so, once or twice a year he'd write letters to the dead man. Sentimentality, you might call it. And the dead man received them, sure enough. They made him smile, though never said anything he didn't already know. Apart from that one, the one on his wedding day, they'd said he'd never looked happier and there was a reason for it. From then on, he cherished each one. They showed he was capable of goodness.

And one day, after 13 years, the dead man replied.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoyed it. Either way, I'd love to hear what you have to think, so please drop me a review if you've got the time. :)


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